


Surfacing

by Windian



Series: no rain in the desert [3]
Category: Tales of Graces
Genre: Anal Sex, Childhood Trauma, Daddy Issues, Frottage, Hand Jobs, It's the Lhants of course there's daddy issues, M/M, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-14
Updated: 2017-10-14
Packaged: 2019-01-17 09:23:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12362646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Windian/pseuds/Windian
Summary: President Paradine celebrates his successful re-election campaign, and Hubert is downright certain the President has put him in charge of seating arrangements as some kind of perverse joke.It doesn't help that the one person he was looking forward to seeing is a no-show. The place set for Lord Asbel Lhant sits empty.





	Surfacing

“How goes the plans for the inauguration?” Malik asks you.

You and the Fendel ambassador sit under the parasolled shade of a balmy boulevard. Malik drinks brandy on the rocks; you nurse a glass of orange and cranberry. Each time you've met like this-- and this is the third time this month-- Malik's offered you something a little harder. That playful quirk to his lips, and “Come now, Hubert, it doesn’t have to be brandy. I'll get you one of those fruity things with the umbrellas if you want.”

Your reply is crossed arms and a terse, “No,” though if truth be told that does sound more palatable than the devilishly dark drink Malik insists imbibing during your appointments together.

 _Appointments._ Malik would tell you off for that, since, as he likes to say, you're too much business and too little pleasure. And your appointments-- _fine_ , friendly meetings, are not part of any formal ambassadorial correspondence.

As to the question of the inauguration, you reply, “Well enough.” Which is a short way of summing up two months of arrangements and endless political shuffling with diplomats and nobles, and god, you're certain the President has put you in charge of the seating arrangements as some sort of perverse joke. You've known the man since you were a child and you understand him even less than you did then.

The inauguration isn't what you asked Malik out here to talk about, and he knows it, too. He's suffered through these meetings: your gloomy demeanour, your distracted silences, waiting for you to-- how would he put it?-- _to spit it out._

But the words are stuck behind the defensible wall of your teeth. Condensation creeps up your glass. If you were a young boy, you would have pressed that cool relief to the sticky back of your neck. As it is, you sit and sweat. You've forgotten the words to ask for help.

“This must be serious,” says Malik. “It didn't even take you this long to come out with your little crush on Pascal.”

“How do you know it's a crush?” you ask him, your eyes narrowing accusingly.

“I didn't. But you just told me.”

“Tch.”

“You know, this is why I suggested the alcohol. Greases the wheels on these kind of conversations.”

“Ugh. Are we human beings truly so pathetic that we can only be honest with ourselves while sozzled out of our brains? What kind of creatures are we?”

“Oh dear,” Malik says. “She must be something very special.”

There's a horribly smug expression on Malik's face, that knowing, _a-ha, I got you_ look. You want to to knock it off him. Swallowing down the sharp sting of a wooden ruler against your palm, your fingers tighten around around the glass so hard your knuckles whiten. Your heartbeat hammers in your head; you force your voice to stay very casual as you tell Malik: “ _He_ , actually.”

You force yourself to look at him. You watch, as Malik's eyebrows raise a fraction, his expression giving little else away. No disgust. You'd barely even call it surprise.

Then he says: “Why, Hubert. I'd never imagined I would be at the centre of your dark web of passion.”

You make a disgusted noise. But you're thrilled, really.

 

You pay the bill, and the two of you walk back to the presidential palace. Standing by the arc of the fountain, casting rainbows in the air, Malik asks, “So what's the issue? Is he unavailable? Uninterested?”

Taking a moment to shift the admission around in your mouth, you tell him, “No.”

After the disaster with Pascal, you'd begun to wonder if the _impossibility_ of the attraction was part of the attraction itself. Another kind of cross to hang yourself from. Pascal had cared more for her work than the affections of others, let alone yourself. In fact, that was probably why you'd been drawn to her.

You'd almost managed to convince yourself this was the same case of Asbel. That the sudden attraction was a whim and nothing to dwell on. Something to quarantined to restless nights, working out the frustrations of the day and Asbel's damnably good natured smile against your pillow.

This self-delusion might have worked, had not Asbel taken matters-- literally- into his own hands.

Despite the heat of the day, you shiver. All the walls you'd built up, and with a few caresses your brother had had you shuddering beneath him, dignity in pieces.

And those damned stains had been a nightmare to get out.

“So,” Malik asks, “What's the issue?”

 _That I liked it,_ you think.

You straighten your cufflinks. “He'll be at the inauguration next week. However...”

You'd expected the most awkward breakfast to end all breakfasts. But the morning after the storm you'd made your way downstairs with trepidation, stockpiling excuses in your throat, to find Asbel cutting the crusts from Sophie's toast. He'd looked up and smiled, a smile so unexpectedly tender those excuses had evaporated without ever being born. You'd spent the day with Sophie and Asbel, unable to find a quiet moment alone, and that afternoon, you were due back in Yu Liberte.

That had been two months ago. You hadn't a clue what to write, so you hadn't. And, well, Asbel had never been much of a writer.

“Ah,” says Malik. “At last I understand.”

“Y-you do?” your old childhood stutter betrays you as you immediately jump to the conclusion that Malik has read the guilt on your face.

“Adolescent nerves,” Malik says, nodding his head sagely.

You breathe out relief. Malik reads it as exasperation. “Fortune favours the brave, Hubert. Just be honest, be yourself, and it'll be fine.”

He smacks you on the back in a playful gesture that nearly knocks the glasses clean off your nose. As you push them back on, flustered and masking it with a heavy dose of scorn, you ask him, “Be _myself_?”

Malik shrugs. “If not, going back to my earlier suggestion, there's always alcohol.”

 

You don't think the problem is your adolescence.

As an Oswell, you've always done as was expected of you. Joined the military, rose through the ranks. When the other boys at the Academy began dating, you understood what was needed. With the efficiency of scheduling an appointment with your optometrist, you'd found an available partner. You and Marian had gone on four dates.

On the fourth, she'd sat down on your bed. When you pulled back from her kiss, she'd cocked a bittersweet smile at you.

“You know, Hubert, this doesn’t really work unless you open up.”

The fourth date had been the last.

 

Four hundred people are to attend the President's special inauguration dinner, and for whatever reason, you're the one in charge of table placement, a job that makes naval strategy look tame.

The Windorian delegation are by far the worst. Their nobles are famous for three things: badminton, cricket, and feuding, and honestly, can you _really_ be expected to remember who insulted who's poodle?

You rather imagine your delegation is less based on your naval prowess and more on the fact that you're assisting the President's daughter, Sadie.

“Let's just move Lord Aldwin here then,” you huff in frustration. “If he simply can't sit with his cousins.”

“No can do,” Sadie tells you, flipping through her clipboard full of numerous notes. “He and Duke Orlen have been feuding over the length of his conifers for a decade now. The last time they were in close contact there was an incident with the rotisserie chicken.”

Sadie is twenty-and-three, with a kind smile and greater patience than you, and despite the President's hopes, you can't summon up any kind of tender thoughts about her at all.

Five years ago, you'd attended the President's first inauguration, after he'd won the vote from a deeply unpopular previous president who'd thought an ice tax would be a fine idea. Thirteen years old, two years a Strahtan, it'd seemed a showy, unnecessary affair. You and your cousin had worn suits tailored especially for the event, although you looked a little silly in yours, having not hit your growth spurt. More tanned, cheeks still pinch-able, “stubbornly solemn,” the ladies with their elaborate bustles tittered. No child of Lhant any longer, but not yet a young man of Strahta.

You still didn't yet venture to Yu Liberte's outskirts to where the city met the desert. The wide endless expanse of sand, dead and empty, stretching on forever into the horizon, still frightened you.

Course after course followed of extravagant food. Sautéed lobster and slow roasted pork belly glazed with honey. Salmon fillets with basil. Pistachio macaroons filled with mango, lime and mint mousses served with fresh strawberries marinaded in sauvingnon blanc. After the parade, a forty-minute fireworks display followed that put the Lhant's harvest festival to shame. You suffered through your father's lecture about being exemplary citizens of Strahta, read: _don't you dare embarrass me in front of all these important people, especially you, Raymond._

When the dancing started, you escaped into the garden to sit by the fountain side, feeling especially more miserable and put-out than usual. You pulled your hand through the water, watching it part for you.

Raymond had found you, slumping by your side and bemoaning that the latest object of his affection hadn't as much as looked his way. Two years your senior and lanky, with a down of peach fuzz on his lip, you could never keep up with which _one--_ these objects seemed to change weekly.

“Hubert,” he asked you, “have you ever kissed anyone?”

Years of being an Oswell had taught you the art of a lie, but still young, the Lhant still lingering in you, you hadn't been so good at it. Raymond swiftly saw through your evasion and grabbed you by the forearm. You winced-- your cousin was always so rough with you. “Tell me,” he'd demanded, “Who was it? Come on, Hubert.”

When he'd squeezed, pinching the soft skin under your armpit, you'd admitted, “Alright! Asbel! My brother Asbel.”

Raymond's eyes had gone as wide as saucers, and if it was possible, it felt as though all the blood in your body had risen to your face. You could feel your heartbeat pounding in your ears. Just saying Asbel's name had felt like tearing off a scab.

“For practice,” you found yourself stuttering. “So we'd be good at it when we were married. Not because we... because...”

Your stammering trailed off when Raymond announced, “That's an amazing idea.”

“It... it is?”

All the better to woo Cynthia, apparently.

Raymond wasn't Asbel, and he was still gripping your wrist uncomfortably tightly, but all the same an old feeling rose to the top of your throat. The smell of running water from the garden's prismatic fountains recalled a stormy night. The softness of your cousin's mouth brought old feelings the surface like the scent of earth after the rain. The draught ends, and old forgotten longings come adrift.

There's no rain in the desert.

Raymond's peach down tickled your upper lip. You couldn't help but wince when he let go of your wrist, crescent shaped indents written into your skin. Something in your chest throbs, not from the bite of your cousin's nails but from the sting of a raw wound: because it's been a year since you gave up writing Asbel and months since you forbade thinking of him because you hate him, _you hate him._

Don't you?

 

“I do solemnly swear that I will execute the office of president of Strahta, and pledge to uphold the charter--”

Thankfully, no one attempts to assassinate the president during his swearing in, _this year._

Security handles the minor hiccups. Dylan Paradine is sworn in a second term, and as the crowd sits from a rendition of the Strahtan national anthem, you hear Malik chuckle. He sits by your side.

“What?” you gripe.

“Coming from Fendel, I admit I've never understood patriotism. It's endearing,” he says.

“I fear I can't say the same about your patronisation, Captain,” you reply, although Hubert Lhant probably would have agreed with him, thinking back to the fireworks, the flags, the self-congratulatory pats on the back through the eyes of a thirteen year old boy.

 _Gaudy,_ the child from Lhant had thought.

During the parade, you find yourself scanning the crowd, squinting through the sea of flags and confetti for Asbel and Sophie.

“Looking for your mystery lover?” Malik asks, so close to your ear that you jump.

You make a disgusted noise in the back of your throat, mostly to cover your embarrassment. “I wish I'd never said anything now.”

“You barely did, Hubert,” Malik says, and when he claps you on the shoulder, you hardly notice, your eyes too busy parting the crowd.

 

The banquet must have had the same caterer as five years ago, because supplied are the same peach macaroons. Just looking at them makes your lip curl, thinking about the too-sweet taste of them on Raymond's mouth.

At least Raymond is dependable in his consistency, because you catch him not-so stealthily filling his pockets with them. You take him by the arm and quickly but firmly guide him out onto the veranda. There you tell him, “Cousin, please don't embarrass me.”

He fixes you in the eye sourly. “You sound a lot like someone else I know.”

The accusation stings. Raymond perks up, as though he's scored a point.

“Macaroon?” he offers. You bat his hand away.

“I have to make sure none of the nobles plan on sporking their table mates to death. If you'll excuse me.”

You're tired of this. The politicking, the endless power plays in your own family. Your eyes find the placeholders sat on the table, set for Lord Asbel and Sophie Lhant. The chairs are empty.

The banquet goes well, but it feels hollow.

“Don't worry,” Sadie says. “I'm sure they're just running late. Hopefully they'll make it for the fireworks.”

It makes you start. “How did you know?” you ask.

She ignores the accusation in your voice. “You've been staring at those empty spaces all night. Lord Lhant is your brother, right? And your niece?”

“You've done your research.”

“Of course,” says Sadie. For a moment, you imagine what it would be like to accept the President's proposition; to have Sadie as your wife. You find your eyes drawn inexplicably back to Asbel and Sophie's table.

“You care about them a lot, don't you?” Sadie asks, softening her voice.

You bite down your instinctive response that they're _just_ your family. Sadie's been honest with you; she deserves the same. “Yeah, I do,” you say, instead.

 

The banquet nears its end.

Asbel and Sophie never arrive.

You try to focus on the task at hand, instead of the anxiety in your throat.

“Excellent work, Hubert,” the President says. The two of you stand by the large doors looking out over the presidential gardens. You wave off a valet with a tray of champagne. “I'm terribly impressed. Only one challenge to a duel and no broken crockery. Very impressed indeed.”

“Thank you Sir. But I believe the thanks belong mostly to your daughter,” you say.

The President is the only man you know whose eyes actually _twinkle_. “Oh? Sadie told me the two of you worked well together.”

You're unsure about that statement, considering the amount of time you spent griping bout Lord Huckleberry's damned poodle.

Very casually, the President asks: “I wondered if you'd considered my proposition any further, Hubert--”

Just as your throat goes dry, there's a call from across the hall of, “Hubert!”

You've honestly never been more relieved in your life as Sophie barrels into you, wind knocked out of your gut. There's only a moment of instinctive hesitation before you stop doing your best wooden impression and awkwardly return her embrace.

You look up over Sophie to see the President smiling. “Perhaps we can speak another time,” Paradine says.

“If you're sure, Sir.”

“Of course. Go, go! Enjoy the festivities with your family.”

Sophie offers the President a deep sweeping bow. “Congratulations on your re-election, Mr President.”

Sophie wears a bright yellow sundress covered in pictures of woodland animals. It's adorable, and utterly inappropriate for formalwear. You can practically feel the stares on the young woman's back, the titters of laughter, the mortification climbing up your ribcage. And then President Paradine offers a small bow of his own.

“Thank you, Miss Sophie. The fireworks will be starting soon, why don't you take your uncle to go see them? The best spot is out on the veranda.”

“OK!” says Sophie, and with a wink the President puts a flute of champagne into your hand and heads towards the hovering first minister.

“What do you think?” Sophie asks, picking up the hems of her sundress. “Buster helped me pick it.”

 _Buster?_ You think, before remembering, ah yes, Mother's old dog Buster--

“It looks lovely, Sophie,” you tell her. “I like the part with the squirrels.” Stares be damned. Sophie beams, and leans in to examine the medals on your chest. You're in full formal military attire, which means shined shoes, a hat full of cockatrice feathers and a full score of your service medals from your short but highly successful service. Your epaulettes have been buffed to perfection and your double breasted jacket has not a thread out of place.

“You look nice too, Hubert. Don't you think so, Asbel?”

You whirl round to find your brother's eyes running down the length of you.

“Oh, wow,” Asbel says. “Um. You scrub up well, Hubert.”

“I only wish I could say the same for you, brother.” Asbel is in formal dress too-- if it can be called that. Some old suit dug out from the back of the wardrobe, by the look of things. You indicate the horrible lopsided tangle of his tie, and he flushes, apologetically rubbing the back of his head.

“Ah, honestly, I've never been able to figure these things out. Sophie tried, too, but--”

“It was _hard_ ,” she says.

“I don't know what to do with you both,” you say, but your exasperation is punctuated by a warm fondness. Setting the champagne aside, deftly, you undo Asbel's tie, and redo it properly for him.

“There,” you say, as you knot it tight, tilting your head up to match the damnable two inches your older brother has on you. You're struck by several things at once; how close the two of you are standing, how Asbel looks at you, unflinching, and the old feeling puddling in your chest like rain after a draught.

Relief wells deep. Forget the seating plans, the party planning: this was the anxiety knotted in your chest.

All evening, it had niggled at you: you'd expected revoke, disgust, for the sharp rap against tender flesh once more.

 

Garett found out. Of course, Garett always found out.

“What did I say about you and Raymond embarrassing me?”

He hadn't hit you, as your other father had. Instead, ice cold eyes and colder disappointment lanced you in place. There was no point protesting it had been Raymond's idea. It must have been your fault, something wrong and marked inside you that had drawn your cousin's attention, just as it had Asbel's. Just as Aston's mouth had grimaced in revulsion, after Frederic caught the two of you in the garden, and you don't think Asbel even _remembers_. You, who was shipped away, defective and unwanted, and--

 

You shouldn’t think about this, now.

 

There's a stark beauty to the desert at night.

You watch the fireworks from the palace's back veranda. Malik joins you, and as he and Asbel catch up Sophie winds her fingers into yours.

“Sorry we were late, Hubert,” she tells you, eyes doleful. “We missed the boat, and had to get the ferry to Barona.”

“That's alright, Sophie.”

She shakes her head. “Asbel was stressed. He was afraid you'd think we'd forgotten you. He was really looking forward to coming see you.”

You can't keep yourself from smiling.

The blistering heat of the day is receding, and the breeze brings a chill into the air. Sophie squeezes up close to you, as fireworks draw brilliant lights in the sky.

 

Asbel settles Sophie into her room in the palace for the night. Malik, meanwhile, is thoroughly ensconced with a redhead he met at the bar.

It's almost a surprise to find yourselves alone.

You ask Asbel if he'd like to take a walk with you. Where to? He asks you.

You don't really know.

In Yu Liberte proper, the partying will go on till dawn. The bars are packed. Groups of revellers spill on the streets, those streets stacked with stalls for creamed corn and candyfloss and all things sugar. You find yourself hailed over by members of your own old contingency-- in varying degrees of tipsy. Lieutenant! Lieutenant, they call. Who's your friend?

My brother, you tell them.

They all gather to see this mythical brother, for Private Phinch to announce, “It's true, look. They have the same eyes.”

By moonlight, the desert sands are bleached bone-white. Out from the commotion and lights of the city, the desert is endless and silent, the open sky cut with a swathe of countless stars.

Once, the desert had terrified you. It had been dead and empty. Now, something about the majestic expanse casts a tremor of awe in your heart. The desert demanded respect. It could kill you. But the slanting light of sunrise and sunset, washing the sands ochre, illuminated the hidden beauty of the heart of the desert.

“So many stars,” Asbel says.

The two of you sit on the sand-dune, still retaining the heat from the scorching day. The air had quickly chilled: in a few hours, away from the heated patio gardens of the city, it would soon drop below freezing.

“It never rains in the desert, does it?” Asbel asks.

“Strahta's an arid region. Meaning we draw the majority of our water from the Valkines. We can go years without any rainfall at all-- so that assumption isn't inaccurate.”

You remember clearly the first time in Strahta it had rained. Bruised and sore from another of Garett's impromptu sparring sessions-- his way of toughening up the boy from Lhant-- you'd crawled into your bed.

You'd smelled it before you heard it on the roof. The smells of the desert were different from those of Lhant's plentiful greenery: pungent sage and rabbitbrush, sand and basalt. The rain eased them from their anchors in the earth, pulled you with it-- back to to a bedroom in Lhant.

Your throat clamps shut around a half finished diatribe about aridity and cubic centimeters of rainfall. How you'd longed for the rain.

“Hubert?” your brother asks. A concerned hand closes around your shoulder, and once the shock of physical contact fades, you let it linger.

Your throat feels tight, restricted. You squeeze the words out, small and frighteningly vulnerable under the exposed expanse of the open sky.

“I wrote to you, you know. Years back. You never replied.”

“I... know,” says Asbel. “I found them. Just last month, when I was tidying some of Dad's things. They were tucked into a book.”

Oh. You don't remember the contents of those letters, only that you'd penned them by cover of night, and pleaded for your new cousin's help to send them. He'd held the favour over your head for months, and then, when it'd become apparent no reply as forthcoming, had shrugged it off.

 _“Maybe he just doesn’t care about you_ ,” Raymond had said.

“I wrote you, too,” says Asbel.

“ _You?_ ”

“Yeah, I know. But I was worried about you. When I didn't hear back I figured... I don't know what I thought. I wasn't thinking too clearly back then. And I couldn’t stand to write anyone else.”

You think of the catacombs, of Lambda. Sophie had healed your wounds, but for Asbel, you know, the scars had crept inside.

You release an aggravated sigh. “I can hazard a guess where those letters ended up.”

Your father had stripped the Lhant from you in a kind of flaying-- he wouldn't have allowed any of Asbel to linger.

Yet, somehow, both your fathers had failed.

Asbel still has hold of your shoulder, and he moves his thumb in circles against the knotted muscle. Your well of words goes dry, as the night deepens, the stars turn, Orion beginning his slow cartwheel across the sky. The night air has a chill, but it's hard to focus on anything other than the circles Asbel is chasing with this thumb.

“So, um,” Asbel's voice is thick with embarrassment. “We should really talk, I guess. About what happened.”

“We should,” you agree.

“Uh.”

Neither of you are good at this.

This is even worse than you'd anticipated. The silence stretches on, desert-dry.

“We can stop,” Asbel says at last, a sudden exhale of a sentence, before rattling on: “We can-- just forget what happened, you want to, and--”

You've spent seven years trying to forget. Stopped your fidgetting. Trapped your feelings behind your teeth. Even now, you have to force the word out--

“No,” you say. And, “Do you?”

“I don't want to either,” says Asbel.

You shiver, not from the cold, as Asbel leans in to kiss you. His nose knocks against yours, the tip of it chilly. He manages to knock your glasses askew with a clumsy hand, carding through your hair. Your fingers cling awkwardly to his coat, and what in gods name are the two of you even _doing?_

But then Asbel runs his tongue tentatively across your bottom lip, and the electricity of the thing drags deep into you. You move into him, and Asbel's arm curls around your waist. He holds you as firmly and fiercely as he did in the magnolia tree in the garden, once upon a time.

When he pulls back, his eyes are bright, bright blue, blown-wide.

“Uh, wow,” he breathes.

You push your glasses back up your nose, adjusting them so they sit straight again.

“A-Agreed,” you say. _Wow_ is right.

 

You make your way back to Yu Liberte, away from the deafeningly wide expanse of the desert. Anticipation is a coil strung tightly in you: wordlessly, the two of you have come to an agreement.

“We'll go back to my house,” you say. “No one else will be home from the party yet.”

Inside, it's dark. Even the staff are out celebrating tonight. Asbel looks around the dim sitting room, eyes lingering on the the gilded mantelpiece; the elaborate candelabra.

“It's nice,” he says.

“I suppose.”

Asbel lingers in the doorway to your old bedroom, looking over your desk, your shelves.

“You really live here?” he asks.

Your brow furrows at the disbelief in his tone. “Yes?”

“Your room is weird, Hubert.”

“Mine? Yours is a tip.”

He shakes his head. “That's not what I mean. It's like you don't even live here.”

“I'm not following,” you tell him, flatly.

“I mean, where's all your stuff? You used to spend hours arranging your sunscreen ranger dolls--”

“Action figures,” you correct him.

“You know what I mean. Where are they?”

Reluctantly, you nudge your head to the locked cabinet. At Asbel's incessant questioning look, you pinch the cartilage of your nose. “They would only get knocked over and damaged... besides, my father doesn’t approve of... that kind of frivolity,” you explain.

For a moment, you see the room as Asbel must see it: bare, blank, unlived in.

Was that what Marian had meant, during your younger, abortive attempts at intimacy?

Asbel's sympathetic eyes infuriate you. “I don't need your pity, brother.” There's a bite to your words you hadn't meant, and Asbel's sympathy softens into hurt, and ugh-- this isn't what you'd meant at all.

 _If you don't open up, this isn't going to work_.

You force yourself to follow your pride. “That came out wrong,” you say. “I misspoke.”

Asbel sits down beside you, the bed dipping to accommodate the extra body.

“It's ok, Hubert.”

You want to tell him: it's not. You hate the what Garett Oswell has done to you. Worse: what you've done to yourself.

Instead, you lean and kiss Asbel, fiercer than before, grabbing your brother by the lapel, wishing you could move _into_ him.

The slight is forgotten. Asbel always forgave too easily. He responds with enthusiasm, and you find yourself reclining back, as Asbel eases the two of you back against the pillows. He pauses a moment, lips pink from kissing, “Shall I take these off?” he asks, indicating your glasses. “Will you be able to see OK?”

“I'm near-sighted, brother, not completely blind.”

“OK, OK.”

Still, the way Asbel lifts the glasses from your face and folds them, setting them carefully on the night-stand makes something in your heart surge.

“It's alright, it's just me,” Asbel says playfully, swinging one leg over the other side of you, effectively straddling you.

“Thank goodness,” you reply, very dryly, “it's just my big brother on my lap. What a relief.”

Still, you can't say you complain much when he kisses you again. You move together more easily now, and when Asbel slips his tongue into your mouth and bolt of heat shifts straight down to your centre. Asbel rocks his hips, and you can feel your brother's hardness pressing against your own. You push back against that delicious friction, Asbel's body hot flush against your own, heat seeping beneath his clothes. Your own meticulously-ironed jacket is getting creased, but the thought slips away from you like a soap bubble as the heat between you builds and Asbel ruts against you.

Before you can have a repeat performance of last time and have the two of you cum right there and then, you push your brother back with a firm hand against his chest.

“Wait,” you tell him, breathless.

His eyes glazed over, it takes a moment for Asbel to snap to. “Is everything OK?”

“Yes, but,” you decide to put it bluntly: “These are my best trousers. I'd rather not ruin them.”

A grin starts to form on Asbel's face. “I'm sure we can do something about that.”

What follows is the most awkward disrobing you've ever suffered through. The ornate buttons on your ceremonial jacket are tiny, and your trousers get caught around your ankles. You can't help but wonder if all sex is this mortifying or if this has something to do with your brother's inclusion. By the time you've managed to kick your clothes into a pile you're very glad you can't see, your face bright red, your chest heaving.

“You don't need to be so stiff, Hubert. Relax already,” Asbel says, stroking the inside of your thigh. “You look like a squirrel just ran up your trouser leg.”

“A very large squirrel,” you mutter darkly.

Asbel's hand, which has been steadily creeping up your thigh, stops. “Look, if you're feeling that uncomfortable, we can stop. And I dunno, cuddle?”

“Don't be ridiculous, brother,” you snap. But all the same, shyness has seized hold of you. As much as you want to reach out and touch Asbel, you can't bear to. You feel locked into your own, useless body.

Asbel lays a kiss on the nape of your neck. “You know I'd never hurt you.”

You squirm, not from the kiss, but the softness in his words. “I know that,” you huff.

He settles into your lap, legs wrapped around your waist, and it feels good to feel his bare skin against yours. It's hot, and exciting, especially when the tip of his penis brushes up against your stomach.

“Can I touch you, Hubert?” he asks, into the crook of your neck, and you thought he'd never ask.

“You already are. Technically.”

“Smartass,” he says, as he wraps a hand around your cock. Even though you were expecting if, when he starts to pump it, you bite down a gasp, stifling it against your hand.

“You don't have to be quiet,” Asbel says. “You said no-one's home right now.”

But you've grown accustomed to silence. Biting down your gasps in the middle of the night; locking yourself into boxes, cabinets.

“Silence is a virtue,” you mutter through your fingers. “Garett Oswell would always say anything that anything loud wasn't worth doing. Although he was usually talking to Raymond at the time.”

“Forget Garett Oswell,” says Asbel, as he pries your hand away from your face. Squeezes it. “Forget Raymond. Hell, forget the Oswells entirely. It's Hubert Lhant I want to make love to.”

You can literally feel your face fill with blood. “I have no idea how you can say these things with a straight face,” you tell Asbel.

Asbel has the decency, at least, to blush. “Look, it's something I read in a book. At least I'm trying, OK?”

Your eyebrows push together. “What in gods name have you been reading?”

“Research,” Asbel says, half mumbles.

“What kind of research?”

Asbel's ears have gone completely pink. Defensively, looking over your shoulder, he says, “Look, it's not like I'm experienced in this kind of thing. The last time just... sort of happened. I wanted to prepare for you know, next time.”

You can see the visible swallow of Asbel's adam's apple. Your mouth has gone dry with the realisation that all along, Asbel has been planning this. And that...

“You've been... thinking about me? About this?”

Asbel rubs a hand through the bristles at the back of his neck. His laugh is a little embarrassed. “I've been out of my mind thinking about you. I haven't been able to concentrate properly in weeks. You've no idea how nervous I was that you might think last time was a mistake. Or that, you know. That it was just messing around. That it didn't mean anything.”

You wish you could reply. All of it sticks, trapped like toffee behind teeth. You kiss him, as hard as you can, hoping he understand how much it means.

Trapped beneath Asbel's leg, your thigh has been going steadily numb. It breaks down now into uncomfortably static tingles as Asbel eases his weight off you to tumble you back into the pillows.

“Tell me if something doesn’t feel good,” Asbel says, as he lays messy kisses down your throat. “Those books didn't help much. I still don't really know what I'm doing.”

“That's reassuring,” you say, and then, “I didn't say _stop_.”

You can feel Asbel's laughter, rumbling against you. You older brother, once again, has the upper hand. And you should be infuriated. Except that you can't deny that there's some part of this-- something about Asbel teasing you like this-- that feels good. Your brother fumbles inexpertly about, but when his careless but well-meaning fingers stumble upon a sensitive spot, you exhale shaky, shuddering little gasps. Asbel looks smug as all hell, and _that feels good, doesn't it?_ You snap and reply, what does he bloody think? But all the same, when you lasso your hands behind his neck and yank him in for a kiss it's with ever more ardour. Because the truth-- the horrible, embarrassing truth-- is that something in you races at the thought of being at your big brother's mercy.

You can't stifle it any longer. The long moan he draws out of you as his hand fumbles into a kind of rhythm feels like a kind of surrender. Your clothes are crumpled on the floor and you're supposed to be up early tomorrow, and you don't honestly care. “Asbel,” you murmur, “Asbel, Asbel, Asbel—”

The front door closes with a pointed _click_.

Your breath catches in your throat. Asbel freezes, still straddling your waist, and it feels as though your stomach drops out as the footsteps come closer.

“Mr Oswell doesn't know you're coming home tonight, right?” Asbel whispers. Silently, terror plugging your throat, you shake your head. “It'll be fine, then. There's no reason for anyone to come in.”

All the same, you're sweating as the footsteps pass right in front of your bedroom door.

And stop.

“What did you think of the party then, Garett?” You recognise the voice: Reynold Oldman, one of your father's business partners.

“Pedestrian,” says Garett. “But at least the wine was decent.”

“I saw your boy talking to the President's daughter. That Sadie girl. Is that still in the cards?”

Garett's smug voice would infuriate you, if you weren't terrified. You don't even feel Asbel's hand as it brushes the sweat-damp hair from your face. “I managed to talk the President into having Hubert assist with the proceedings.”

“Wasn't he... kind of reluctant before?”

“He'll come around. I've been keeping tabs on him, and he's certainly not seeing anyone else. Sooner or later he'll see this match for the good opportunity it is.”

Asbel, visibly, bristles.

“Kids eh? They always think they know best,” says Reynold.

“You're telling me. Now, brandy?”

The footsteps retreat as the two men retire to the parlour room, and their voices vanish.

You can breathe again, although, humiliatingly, you can't seem to stop trembling.

“You want to stop?” Asbel asks.

“A-alright.”

Your leg has gone to sleep again. You rub away the fuzzy pin-prickly feeling, as Asbel cuddles up next to you, an arm around your shoulders.

Slowly, your pulse returns to normal. Your breathing evens, Asbel playing with your hair.

You laugh, a little.

“What is it?” Asbel asks.

“Isn't it hilarious?” you ask him, voice free from mirth. “I was always so desperate to please Aston as a child. Nothing's changed. I'm still the same weakling I ever was.” You spit the word, twisted with the self-loathing poison that always sits just under your surface: “ _Pathetic.”_

“Hey,” says Asbel, and when you won't look at him, he cups a hand to your face. Reluctantly, you meet his gaze. “You're not. And you're not weak, either. I was pretty nervous just then, too. I mean, this is... if anyone found out about this, things could get pretty crazy.”

You're having sex with your brother. _Crazy_ sounds like an understatement.

“Besides.” Asbel presses his lips together. “I used to think about that a lot, too. About being weak. Not being strong enough. I don't really think about it anymore.”

You can still feel the ghosts of Aston's ruler on your palm. You squeeze your hand closed, asking him, “What changed?”

“You guys, I guess.” He grins, lop-sided. "Sophie and Cheria, the Captain and Richard and Pascal. And you. I guess you made me stronger. Or gave me the courage to believe in the strength that was already there.”

You stare at him. You're a little moved, but you don't want him to know that. “Did you get that out of a book, too?”

“No!” Asbel was turning red. “That's pure genuine one hundred percent Asbel Lhant. I was trying to be sincere.”

“Remind me why I'm here again."

“Well, if you get tired of me, there's always the President's daughter,” Asbel says in a huff. “You could be the next president. Not a bad career option.”

“Strahta's not a monarchy, brother. That's not how it works,” you tell him. You swear you've had the conversation before. “And before you say anything: no, I'm not marrying Sadie. She's a lovely girl and will make a lovely bride, but not for me. No matter what my father hopes.”

You've never wanted a bride, you admit to yourself. Your inclinations had always been there. Aston had tried to stamp them out; Garett had tried to curb it. Yet here the two of you were, anyway.

“Do you remember that game we played as kids, in the garden? You were the knight. I was always the princess. You used to kiss me, up in that old magnolia tree.”

Asbel's eyes widen. “I forgot about that. I think I just used to want an excuse to kiss you.” He claps a hand to his mouth. “Wait, did Frederic...?”

“Did you know Father punished me for it?”

Asbel stares, open mouthed. You flex your fingers.

“It was nothing, really. A few whacks on my palm with a ruler. It was how disgusted he looked that stung. I never thought we were doing anything wrong, so I admitted it all. The way he looked at me...” you speak softly, but your words gather thunder. “Sometimes I wonder if that was the real reason he sent me away. Why he hid my letters. Why--”

Your words fall, pebbles down a well, as Asbel picks up your hand. He kisses you there, on the soft part of palm, on the scars inside.

“Goddamn fathers,” Asbel says. “Forget about all this, Hubert. Let's not talk about our parents. Lhant, Oswell, it doesn’t matter to me. You're you. Its you I care about.”

It would be easy to refute this. An old piece of sarcasm, just behind your teeth: how easy it would be to laugh, to callously toss aside your brother's feelings like a pair of unwanted shoes. _You've always been a fool_ , you nearly say.

But you don't.

Instead, you lean forward to kiss him.

“Prove it,” you tell him.

There's an urgency, a fever in your kisses that wasn't there before. When you reach down to take hold of Asbel's cock to return the favour, he pushes you back down against the bed. His eyes are hazy.

“I've got something better we can try,” he says. “Do you trust me?”

That's a loaded question. But you don't even think about it: all you can focus on is the firm hand pinning you to the bed, the want in your brother's eyes. “Yes,” you croak, and stronger, moistening your dry mouth with your tongue: “Yes.”

You nearly whine with complaint when Asbel climbs off you and his weight retreats. He returns, shortly, with a small vial retrieved from the inner lining of his jacket.

“What's that?”

“Just lube,” says Asbel, and perhaps he sees your perplexed face, because he asks, “Don't you know what--?”

“Of course I do,” you snap.

You don't have a clue.

As widely read as you are, Strahta's lieutenant has always had a certain blind spot. Romance novels were trashy and unimportant. Despite its use for procreation, sex was a messy, much too-involved affair.

Over the years, you'd got good at compartmentalizing. That you frequently-- increasingly frequently-- jacked off to the thought of your big brother, was something to be set inside a box and put away.

“Don't worry about it,” Asbel says, having apparently discerned the truth from your stubborn and splotchy face. “It's not like I'm an expert. But, uh, maybe it'd be best just to show you. You'll tell me if I do anything that hurts, right?”

“I'll be fine.”

“I'm serious, Hubert. I want you to have a good time, too. If you want to stop, we'll stop.”

Asbel fixes you seriously, and your stubbornness slips away. The concern in his eyes does something funny to your chest.

“Very well,” you say, half-huff. “Now do get on with it.”

“Alright, alright.”

You're half hard when Asbel's fingers probe your ass, and the the sudden cold feeling of intrusion makes you _jump_.

“Sorry! I know it's cold. It should feel good in a moment, though. I hope.”

“You _hope_?”

You're dubious about this prospect, especially when Asbel slips a fingers inside you, and the sensation is like nothing you've experienced.

“How does it feel?” Asbel asks, carefully studying your expression.

“Weird,” you tell him, which is the truth.

“But it doesn't hurt?” your brother asks.

“No,” you tell him, though there's something close to it when Asbel pushes a second finger inside of you. It's tight-- almost too tight. You pull a face, starting to wonder if putting his fingers up your butt is Asbel's idea of a prank.

“Asbel, I don't think this is--” before you can finish, Asbel's fingers bump up against--something. Something that makes you finish your sentence with a sharp, deep inhale.

Asbel looks horribly pleased with himself. When he adds a third, final finger it's almost too much. The stretch, the burn of it. But Asbel lets you settle into the stretch, and by the time he starts to pump all three fingers into you the discomfort of the thing is drowned out by how damned _good_ it feels.

“Hey Hubert, can I...?”

Your eyes fly open. It takes a few seconds, Asbel still pushing his fingers into you, to figure out what he's asking. Only when he nudges his hips, pointedly, towards you, it clicks. Your head spins. “You want to...”

“We don't have to,” Asbel says quickly, his faced decidedly pink. “I just wondered--”

“Yes,” you say. You'd never entertained the possibility before, but the idea of your brother's cock inside you is electrifying. You feel it with a deep ache in your cut, your penis so hard it _hurts_.

You guide his cock towards you. You're trembling. When you take Asbel's hand you find he's shaking, too. You kiss him, long and deep, until the trembling slows to a small tremor under his palm.

He pushes inside you, and the girth of it makes you gasp-- so much more than Asbel's fingers. “Keep going,” you tell him, as you take your brother's cock inch by inch, until you've swallowed the entire length, his hips flush against your own.

Looking down, to see where the two of you connect is both disturbing and dizzying.

“Wow,” Asbel breathes, which is exactly what you're thinking. “Are you OK? Can I start to move?”

You nod sharply, and Asbel's hips retreat, before he squeezes himself back in. After a few dozen strokes the too-tight feeling starts to ease. You put your hands on Asbel's hips to feel the squeeze of his muscles as he pushes inside you. All you can hear is Asbel's heavy breathing; the wet sound of Asbel's cock repeatedly entering you; the sound of your own heartbeat.

Asbel picks up the pace, thrusting deep into you. “Hubert, you feel so good--”

You can't even manage a reply; you're too far gone, turning your head to muffle a moan into the pillow. Asbel bumps up against that sweet spot inside of you, your legs curling around him, willing him deeper, deeper--

Asbel's thrusts become more erratic, his breathing shallower. With one final abortive thrust, you feel him cum, spilling deep inside. At the thought that it's Asbel that's filling you up, you reach your limit. Your cum splatters over both your chests and vaguely, you feel Asbel's cock still twitching inside you.

Asbel pulls out, and you grimace for a moment at the sensation: too-sensitive, sticky. But then Asbel pulls you into his arms.

“You felt incredible, Hubert,” comes Asbel's sleepy murmur at your ear.

“You weren't too bad yourself,” you reply, and Asbel laughs, although it transforms halfway into a yawn.

“From you, I'll take that as a compliment.”

You drift to sleep in your brother's arms. You press a face to his shoulder, breathing in his scent. An old feeling creeps on on you.

There's no rain in the desert, but some wells spring deep.

It was never the smell of rain you'd missed, but of him.

 


End file.
